


John Wick 3: One Man Army

by Jokerang (SpaceShark)



Category: John Wick (Movies), Sicario (2015)
Genre: Crossover, Gun Violence, John is on the run, Post-John Wick: Chapter 2 (2017)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-04 12:27:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14020245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceShark/pseuds/Jokerang
Summary: Crossover of John Wick and Sicario.It's been two months since John killed Santino D/Antonio and was excommunicated from the Continental. Since then, he's been living like Jack Reacher, never staying in one place very long (and leaving a trail of bodies wherever he goes). After completing a job in Houston, various High Table assassins chase him to Waco, where he finds a woman named Kate Macer trying to get a fresh start at life.At the same time, CIA Officer Matt Graver takes note of Wick. Alejandro seizes an opportunity to settle an old score.Hints of John/Kate, though I'm not sure where to go with it.





	1. Chapter 1

_"Winston, tell them, tell them all, whoever comes, whoever it is, I'll kill them, I'll kill them all."_

_"Of course you will."_

* * *

_Sugar Land, Texas_

Harold Crown had spent 18 years in the oil business. In that time, he'd settled down and fathered two children, a daughter of 16 and a son of 12. His daughter had always been the rebel of the family, but no one would have expected her to get drugged up and raped at a house party hosted by a friend of a friend. Harold had done his research and was ready to find the perpetrators and bring them to justice, but found them connected to the Sinoloa Cartel. To go after the enforcers of Ferdinand Salazar meant certain death for most.

Which is where John Wick came in.

Harold knew of the man's reputation, and that he was wanted by most of America's criminal underworld, but that didn't stop Harold from doing what needed to be done.

* * *

 

They met at the First Colony Mall, a shopping ground for the Houstonian elite that lived in the suburb that was Sugar Land. Hidden in plain sight. Harold sat at a bench and waited ten minutes, as agreed upon. Then John appeared, sitting directly behind him with their backs facing each other. John had taken precautions to ensure the other man would have trouble recognized him if called by police: Astros World Series ballcap, designer sunglasses, and freshly shaved facial hair and freshcut.

"Harold," said John, emotion devoid in his voice. 

"John."

"I found him. He'll be in a safe house in the Memorial area of town."

"Excellent. I trust you recieved the $5000 at the location we agreed upon at our last meeting. Are you sure you don't want to kill them? Do you want more money for it?"

"No." As much as John would have liked to kill them, he had other reasons. In fact, in another life, he would have done this job for free. "Cripple a deserving man, and the police will smile behind your back. Kill him as a vigilante, and the police will be forced to do their job and hunt you down. That's the last thing you want for your family."

Harold nodded grimly. "What would you have me do, then?"

"Get an alibi. For the next few hours, you and your family need to be seen in public. Go out to eat, watch Little League, whatever it is you do for fun out in the open." Another pause. A few couples walked pass them. "How's your daughter doing?"

"A little better, I think. She has begun making progress with her therapist. She has begun talking to us again, taking an interest in things. Once again, thank you."

John adjusting his hat and stood up, walking away.

* * *

 

_Memorial City, Houston_

Five against one was a lost cause for most people. But not John Wick. Taking down five gangbangers was practice.

Once they were all subdued and tied up around the central living room of the house, John poured himself a shot of tequila and waited for them to stir and wake up. John had consficated their weapons and placed a Sig Sauer pistol at the temple of the leader of the men.

The leader, a burly Hispanic man with neck tattoos of Aztec gods, looked around when waking up, and began cursing in Spanish. Then English. "You're dead, motherfuc-"

John pressed the gun harder, both to shut him up and keep the others from getting any funny ideas. "I do the talking. You're with the Sinaloa Cartel, correct?"

A few silent knows, though very reluctantly. It wasn't like John was going to report them to the police.

"You five are in charge of providing false passports and IDs for members operating in and out of Houston. Tell me where that is." No response.

John pressed the gun against the leader's back. "Tell me or I'm going to start hurting your boss."

"Just do it!" shouted the boss, writhing in pain from the exit wound the gun was placed against.

After a few hesitant looks, one of the others said, "In the mudroom. Behind the washing machine."

"Wait here." John went to the mudroom, found a duffel bag with what he was looking for, and came back to the living room. "There's one last thing. You boys are going to learn some respect."

"We can-"

"No, you can't. You'll survive, but you'll never be the same again. From here on out, if you do anything, rob a bank, shoot a police officer, or even kill a dog, I'm going to come back and kill every one of you. Slowly, and painfully. Understand-"

"Go fuck your-"

**Whack.**

* * *

 

_Santa Fe, New Mexico_

"You heard of this guy?"

Matt Graver looked at the file his superiors had given him. A legend in the criminal underworld, who'd destroyed two of New York's main criminal empires and went rogue. "I have."

"He's left a trail of bodies from Philadelphia to Nashville to New Orleans, and was last known to be in Houston. The Russians called him Babi Yaga after the witch of Russian myth, but his name's just John Wick."

From his chair, Alejandro looked away from the DEA officer speaking and in his lap.  _At last. You're spent half your life being the hunter of the hunters, but now you are the ultimate prey._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First time writing for both fandoms. I thought Alejandro might fit well in the Wick-verse.


	2. Chapter 2

_“You should move to a small town, somewhere where the rule of law still exists. You will not survive here. You are not a wolf, and this is the land of wolves.”_

Waco, Texas

Kate Macer didn’t like Waco. But she didn’t hate it either. It was the right size for getting away. Several states away from Arizona too. Texas was big enough to get lost in.

She’d chosen to leave the FBI on her own terms, and Dave seemed alright with it. He was one of those people that didn’t ask questions but knew the general idea of what was going on. Reggie understood too; after all, he’d been there, knew the truth behind Matt fucking Graver and fucking Alejandro. It still kept her up at night at times thinking about them.

But all things heal with time. At least that’s what Reggie said.

Shortly after getting to Waco, she found a comfy job as the head security guard as a local bank. The hiring manager even said she was overqualified given her FBI experience. But he didn’t ask questions and was just happy for a seasoned guard. And she _did_ like the 8-5 aspect, something that didn’t exist with the FBI.

With all the extra time and money, Kate tried to get her life together. Rent was easily taken care of for a studio apartment, one room was converted into a miniature gym, she’d gotten to know her neighbors (though she was damn careful to never let them know too much about her), and she was now a regular at all the local watering holes. If she was going to an early grave via smoke and alcohol, so be it. At least she’d be the one to control her own fate.

All in all, not a bad existence. Lonely, but she preferred it that way. After the incident with Ted she wasn’t taking drunks home from the bar.

Thus this particular night, like all the nights she’s spent in Waco, was by herself. She woke up at 5:00 in the morning as part of her usual Spartan regimen, quickly taking her shower and eating breakfast (today, an insta-meal in the form of a Hot Pocket with sausage and cheese). As she eats, she checks the news on the Internet, keeping track of the world around her.

Today the top headline was of five Mexican cartel members being beaten to a bloody pulp in a richer Houston suburb. Leads were being followed, but at least one commenter suggested that the legendary hitman known as John Wick was to blame.

Kate had heard of Wick while in the FBI. A former Delta operator and living legend among the New York criminal underworld for pulling off near impossible assassinations and sabotage, John Wick had done a complete 180, to marry and effectively retire from the life he’d chosen. Then, he’d been dragged back into it after his wife had died and his former Russian employers gave him grief.

That was two months ago, however. Quite some time time after Kate had left the FBI.

Just a bit of news for her. Surely John Wick would never cross paths with her. She had her job to do, and she wasn’t going to be affected by some headline she just read in the online version of the newspaper.

She was wrong.

Very wrong.

* * *

 

_Undisclosed location, Paris, France_

A syndicate of organized crime unknown to the world’s intelligence agencies, the High Table had been formed after the end of the Second World War. The war had devastated organized crime in Europe and Asia, in particular the Mafia and Camorra, so the two groups made an alliance with the 'Ndrangheta, and the High Table was born.

Over time, the High Table had acquired enough members to form a baker’s dozen: the three Italians, the 14K Triad in Hong Kong, the Yakuza, the Russian mafia of St. Petersburg, a consortium of Saudi princes with a side gig of selling weapons, the Indian D-Company, the Irish, the Corsicans, the Nigerian mob, and most recently the Sinaloa Cartel, having supplanted the Colombians in the late 2000s.

Over the years, the twelve that made up the High Table had led the world in drug trafficking, extortion, bribing the world’s politicians, prostitution, racketeering, and arms sales. Many other crime organizations had tried to join the twelve. Many had failed. Some had been wiped out entirely, to set an example of what would happen should the High Table be displeased.

This time, however, they had to address what constituted an outright attack on their sovereignty.

Their leaders met in Paris, a city important since the Dark Ages and a city that would continue to be important long after most of them were gone. All had arrived the previous day, giving time for their various covers and alibis to take root with the local authorities. The Corsicans were good at that; their fingers were all over France, reaching as far as the French Council of Ministers – the equivalent of the US Cabinet.

Nine men and one woman took their seats on the table, leaving two empty. One was for the Camorra, which had vowed not to submit a new successor until John Wick was dead. The other was reserved for the Head of the High Table, who walked in five minutes later.

A small Asian man with an unusually full beard for his race and dressed impeccably, Yan Jing had been master of the 14K for the past ten years. Every aspect of life in China, in one form or fashion, was involved with the 14K in some way. The position of Head revolved every two years, to prevent one group from taking control of them all. After his greetings, Jing and the others sat.

“So,” said Jing in Oxford English, “yet another attempt to capture or kill Wick has failed.” Though his voice showed no emotion, there was no doubt of his wrath at his colleagues not living to expectations.

“Two more of our most trusted contractors went missing in Galveston this week.” Brian O'Callaghan owned a chain of Irish pubs in New England and Quebec that served as a cover for sex trafficking and drugs coming into the United States and Canada from Western Europe. With receding red hair and a small mustache, he looked like a kindly uncle, but was known for personally killing traitors and rats.

“Which means they’re dead.” Olga Kedrova was the widow of Vasili Andropov, who had made the St. Petersburg mafia the force it was today. She was the first woman to have a spot on the High Table, and only because her husband put it in his will. That hadn’t stopped a good number of rival claimants, however, and they’d been dealt with in various gruesome ways. Raised alongside Roberto D’Antonio’s children, capturing John Wick was personal for Olga. In her thirties, her jet black hair and bewitching green eyes turned heads at every High Table convention.

 A few smirks, but that was it. Jing said, “All in favor of releasing Agent Smith?”

Agent Smith was the code name for a high ranking mole in MI5. He was the High Table’s most valuable asset, for without him most of the members would be facing long times behind bars. He was an expert at detective work, assassination, and coercion.

Hand after hand went up. Eventually even Antoine de Provence, de facto head of the Corsicans, went along. He was the most vulnerable if Agent Smith was to be let loose, given how the British authorities were hot on his trail for a massacre of Pakistani immigrants that hadn’t paid their debts to him in time.

“If I may,” said Ferdinand Perales, the new leader of the Cartel, “we have our own asset, Santa Muerte, on Wick’s trail as we speak.”

Jaws dropped. Santa Muerte was an asset only used by the Cartels for the most desperate of situations. Sending her against Wick was a message.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Jing. “It’s just a few more on the manhunt for Mr. Wick and his $14 million bounty.”

They then discussed other, less serious matters after talking about John Wick was done. With the D’Antonio line extinct (Santino may have been a womanizer, but he left behind no known heirs), the long and tedious process of selling off their estate had begun. Mr. Akoni, who represented the Nigerians, had demanded most of the D’Antonio collection of artwork for his organization, wanting to accept it as payment for Gianna’s heavy handed tactics that had led to the Nigerians losing control of most of Algeria and Morocco.

“That is a matter for the Camorra,” said O’Callaghan. “Technically they control your warehouses and docks in North Africa now. By the way, when are they going to submit their successor? I’ve gotten requests from both the Serbians and the Argentinians regarding their seat. They claim the deaths of the D’Antonios allows for anyone to take it.”

“The Camorra will die before giving up their seat,” said Giovanni De Leo, leader of the 'Ndrangheta. “Like us, they were one of the original founders…”

Jing rolled his eyes. The Italians were very proud of being the original High Table, and never missed an opportunity to stick it in everyone’s faces. “Enough. We will deal with that when Wick is dead. For now, we must focus our efforts on him. His body count has reached the three figures, and well over 80% of our regular contractors are dead or out of service for the foreseeable future.”

“I have my own idea,” said Khalid bin Mohammed, the Saudi representative on the High Table. A distant cousin of the King of Saudi Arabia, Khalid was a power behind the throne for the last three Saudi kings, and no matter who succeeded the current monarch, he was sure to be beholden to Khalid and his consortium.

“And that is?” asked Olga.

“We bring in the Americans. I mean the CIA. We have a good amount of leverage over them. Like the Continental’s blood oath marker, but even more binding. They will help us get Wick or we will release enough classified documents to send half of Washington to Guantanamo Bay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's how we tie in our friends Matt and Alejandro into the chase for John. Although given the grudge Alejandro has against the Sinaloa Cartel, Matt may have to be discreet about how he tells all that to his best asset.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the bit of world building I did with the details on the High Table. I took all the groups Santino mentioned in John Wick 2 and added some of my own. Some are real, others I just used an ethnicity for.


	3. Chapter 3

_Two months before_

Winston was as good as his word. One hour after he declared John excommunicated, multiple assassins, hitmen, and mercenaries moved on him.

John had used the grace period wisely. In an hour he did all of the following: licked every single one of his wounds, dropped off the dog with Francis, had his suit repaired to tip top shape, cashed in all of his coins for solid US dollars, paid informants he trusted for who was most likely to come after him first, and most importantly outfitted himself with a new arsenal.

As the ex-SAS arms dealer/sommelier in Rome had suggested, he’d gone with Glocks as his primary sidearms. He liked the way they felt, the way they fired. He bought enough magazines to last a month. He could always get more on the road from dealers who didn’t know or care about the rules of the Continental.

For an assault rifle, John picked out an AK-12 from one of the Albanians in Bronx. The AK-12 was the latest in the Russian AK series, and John had used it a couple times on jobs for Viggo and Abram. Picatinny rail for custom optics, a new magazine that let one see all remaining rounds, pistol grip made for comfort, retractable shoulder stock, and a two-round burst designed for Russian special forces – it was everything John cold ask for in an assault weapon.

Explosives and grenades came from a Crip who owed John several times over. John got from him five Claymore mines, a dozen grenades (frag, flashbang, and even one nerve gas), and a car bomb with the accompanying remote.

As for knives, John took a Ka-Bar (something he’d mastered in his days with Delta Force) and a balisong. The Filipino Balisong butterfly knife was essentially a flashy switchblade of Asia. John had found one and he wasn’t going to let it go to waste.

After finishing his shopping trip, John got himself lost in the subway. He was headed somewhere in particular, but needed to send a message to the men and women that had been tracking him all day.

_I’ll kill them all._

The first of them to go was a Hispanic man disguised as a policeman. His presence told John that the Sinaloa Cartel was one of the main seekers of the bounty. The fake policeman didn’t make it much further than the alley John walked to after leaving the subway station, his throat slit.

The next two were a bit trickier. John only knew them as Ivan and Natasha, a husband and wife pair of Russians from the Motherland. They didn’t work for Viggo, but rather the higher ups in the Russian mafia food chain in St. Petersburg.

Ivan found John first. John had just been leaving the alley when Ivan charged at him. John narrowly was able to sidestep him and twist Ivan’s arm. As the suppressed shots began firing, John noticed Natasha in the corner of his eye. She was walking normally, as if the fight going on between the two men didn’t mean anything to her. It was only when she began to draw her own pistol that John forced Ivan’s hand to do a double tap on Natasha. From there, John struggled to pin Ivan to the ground for a minute, but once it happened, Ivan also got a bullet to the head.

After them, John had five minutes of relatively free walking. Then there was the next attempt on his life. He actually had been caught off guard when he felt the pings on the back of his suit. Turning, John noticed a taxi cab with a darkened front window, but with a hand holding a Makarov pistol straight at him. John immediately fired back with his Glock 34, sending the driver’s head backwards. Immediately two more men, both Indians, got out from the back seat, each armed with a silenced Spaz-12 shotgun.

 _D-Company,_ thought John. He knew because the Indians sent drive by hit squads in terms of three: Brahma the driver, Vishnu the local scout, and Shiva the imported muscle. Vishnu and Shiva chased John down another dark alleyway, where he hid behind a garbage dumpster. Vishnu went to inspect it first, and John rewarded him with two rounds in the neck.

Shiva, taller and larger than the other two Indians, charged at John, screaming in Hindi and firing his silenced Spaz. John let his arm take the shots (this was going to be the test of Angelo’s handiwork) and grabbed the shotgun, keeping the barrel away with one hand while the other reached for Shiva’s neck. Another shotgun blast fired, scaring away a flock of birds on a telephone wire not too far away.

For a moment, it seemed that Shiva had the upper hand. But then John revealed that to be a ploy. John had sacrificed the hand moving away the shotgun so that he could reach for the Ka-Bar. Going straight into where the god Shiva was said to have a third eye on the forehead, the last Indian assassin dropped his weapon, stared blankly for a few seconds, then fell with an unceremonial thud.

John would have taken their weapons, but it would cost precious time to search them and his contact was not far off. Besides, he needed his arm treated. He walked off, hoping that was the last of them to take a swipe.

Not quite.

He’d gotten to the lobby of the high rise lofts where he was meeting his contact, when in the elevator the man in the suit behind him grabbed him and pulled out a garrote. Judging from his swarthy complexion, he was an Italian of sorts, but to his allegiances no clue. Had to be a newcomer or imported for John not to have recognized him right away.

John struggled with him for a minute in the elevator, kicking his knees and jabbing elbows. He only had to wait till the elevator reached the next floor and opened, potentially exposing them to outsiders who would no doubt call the police.

However, when the elevator doors opened the hallway was empty. Just the rows of doors leading to the various apartments with numbers on them, and a vending machine about then feet away. Using all his might, John dragged him to the machine and slammed against it with his back. The assassin fell, but pulled out a switchblade. He began swinging it at a dazed John when he was grabbed from behind.

Francis had stepped out of his room. He dragged the Italian back into the apartment, and a few seconds later John heard a neck crack.

It was nice to have people that owed you.

* * *

 

John and Francis treated themselves to some frozen Salisbury steaks in the freezer, and some Bud Lights. John also had a small glass of bourbon.

“I hear you’ve been promoted at the Red Circle,” said John.

“General Manager.” Under most circumstances, it would have been surprising to see a bouncer become a manager of a nightclub. However, given how John had liquidated most of the Red Circle’s staff, it made more sense, given Francis’ years working for the Tarasov family.

“Congratulations,” said John. A few minutes in silence as they ate their food. “What are you going to do about the body?”

“Cut it up, heat the pieces in the oven, and vacuum up the ashes,” replied Francis, chewing a mouthful of steak. “It’s what the Chinese do when they have bodies that need to go away, in their butcher shops. The Camorra will never find him, trust me.”

“He’s Camorra?”

“I once saw him accompanying Gianna D’Antonio, alongside Cassian.”

 _Cassian._ That was Gianna D’Antonio’s former chief bodyguard, a former career Blood who’d been more or less forced into the Camorra’s service when they disposed of a detective on his trail for bribery. John had a suspicion that he and Gianna were lovers, but he’d have to ask Cassian himself to answer that question. “Do you think he was working for Cassian?”

“Doubt it. Cassian hasn’t been seen ever since you left him in a subway with a knife in his heart. Word on the street is that you killed him.”

John shook his head. “Nope. A good emergency clinic could remove the knife if he got there in time. I guess he’s licking his wounds somewhere.”

“Probably.” Francis finished his food, then tossed it in the trash while putting a brown delivery box on the table. “Gift from Abram.”

John knew Abram. Via Francis, he learned that Abram was willing to help out John just once before officially announcing he too was on the hunt for the $14 million bounty. John opened the box to find two items. The first was the keys to a 1973 Ford Mustang. “Not the same, but a close replacement,” said Francis. “It’s at a dealership in Pittsburgh. I’ll drop you off there tomorrow.”

“Abram sure seems to be friendly. You think he can hold Viggo’s old domain?”

Francis shook his head sadly. “Not with the losses you inflicted on him the past two weeks. Olga and St. Petersburg are trying to coerce him into joining their operation, as well as any of Viggo’s underbosses you left alive. Only a matter of time, really. She’ll probably promise your balls on a plate as well, knowing her.”

The second item in the box was a bottle of Finlandia Vodka. _Ironic._ This was Abram being cheap.

“Well, appreciate the hospitality. If only the person this marker’s for will do the same.”

“They should. It’s a rule.”

“This person doesn’t play by the rules unless forced to.”

* * *

That was two months ago. Now, John was driving in that same Mustang down Highway 6 towards Waco. He was in some middle of nowhere town called Calvert, with less than two thousand people. A couple of miles past the town, and a highway patrol was wanting him to pullover.

 _Best to see what it is._ If it was an actual cop, no sweat. He’d be gone by tomorrow. If a hitman… then that could be taken care of too.

It was the middle of day. The State Trooper was a man in his 30s with sunglasses and a big Texas cowboy hat. “ID and insurance, please.”

John gave him the fake ID he’d altered from the Cartel underboss in Houston. The trooper walked away, radioed something inaudible, then went back to John and said, “Get out of the vehicle.”

John was doing just that when he noticed a small tattoo on the trooper’s arm. A small eagle that had been among symbols used to indicate members of the St. Petersburg bratva. This was no Texas State Trooper.

John grabbed the man before he could react and got the gun from his holister. He then moved him behind the ditch just off the highway, to keep any passing cars from noticing. “How many of you are there?”

The faux trooper cursed in Russian.

John kicked him in the groin, and then between the legs for good measure. _That should do the trick._

“F-five. Agent Smith’s men, the recon elements.” That was all he was saying.

John put a bullet in his head and searched the trooper vehicle for anything of use. He found several hundred in cash, the original owner’s identification (he was most likely dead), and several small bags of high quality cocaine. John left those with the body. The people who found the site would assume it was a drug deal gone bad.

John then got back in his own car and continued the trek to Waco. He was headed to Waco in particular because he knew that was where a person who could force a meeting with the marker’s owner was.

* * *

Ten minutes after John drove off, an armored car that was originally used to safeguard bank money pulled up to the scene of the crime. Four men got out, each having a designated code name prior to the op: Pieces, Gater, Cyrus, and Apex. The Fifth man, Rooster, stayed in the vehicle to watch for anything. All five were armed with an assortment of body armor, submachine guns, and other tactical gear.

“This just happened,” said Cyrus in a thick Scottish accent, examining the body for wounds. “Target can’t be far.”

“Stay frosty,” said Gater, the leader and overall second in command after Smith. “Make sure it’s not a trap.”

The next five minutes were spent making sure John wasn’t waiting in the wings. Then Pieces, a Colombian who earned his stripes from the Escobar era, said, “I think I have an idea.”

“Don’t get smart, Pieces. You know Smith’s orders. Wait until he’s here.”

“Screw that, Gater. We don’t work for High Table, we work for ourselves. I think we can get away with bagging Wick ourselves, and we can split the $14 million five ways. How does 2.8 million in hard cash sound to you?”

A pause. It let the others think on the proposal for a minute, and ultimately they decided to take the risk. It was worth it.

“Do we know where Wick will be staying in Waco?”

“I’m guessing that motel that caters to folks like him,” said Cyrus. “Not the Continental, but a lowkey version that won’t care if he’s excommunicated. Why?”

“I think we can pull it off. There’s a bank next to that place, right?”

* * *

_Later that day, Waco, First Bank of Central Texas_

Kate’s day had just gotten a whole lot worse.

They had hit just before closing. The other guard was going out the side door to take a smoke when his head disappeared in a cloud of red mist. Then, without warning, four armed men with Guy Fawkes masks barged in, shooting at the ceiling and telling everyone to get on the ground. They must have known she was security, because one of them had a gun to her head in seconds.

Kate’s heart started racing again. She’d escaped the cartels and CIA and god knows what else Matt was doing on the border, only to be held hostage in what could only be a bank robbery. Given how her coworker was ruthlessly killed, she assumed they weren’t the kind to keep hostages alive if they became expendable. What was worse that the alarms weren’t going off. Even when one of the other employees tried repeatedly to press the panic button before one of the men yanked him off and began to administer a beating. Clearly they’d disabled that beforehand, by means beyond her skillset.

She then noticed no drills or anything to break into the safes at the back of the building. She immediately knew these assholes weren’t here for money. They were here for hostages. For what, she’d find out later.

The four men rounded up the manager, her, and five other employees they hadn’t killed. Then they put them all in a circle with hands behind their backs, handcuffed. Kate wasn’t touched, but that was because the apparent leader of the robbers was pulling her to the side for a private word while the other three took up positions to cover doors and windows.

“See that motel?” he asked in a Spanish accent, pointing to the Western Brazos Motel across the street.

Kate nodded, though did nothing to show fear.

“Good. Take this message to the occupant of door 134. His name is John. He’ll understand what it means.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope John doesn't sound too OOC. And who does that marker belong to? Found out later...


End file.
